


Double-Edged Sword

by cosmere_bastard



Series: Stormlight Archives OrderSwap AU [1]
Category: Cosmere - Brandon Sanderson, Stormlight Archive - Brandon Sanderson
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon-Typical Violence, Dustbringer Kaladin, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-26
Updated: 2021-01-25
Packaged: 2021-03-18 14:55:08
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,192
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28994046
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cosmere_bastard/pseuds/cosmere_bastard
Summary: What if Kaladin had taken the sword he had won in battle? What would have happened to his bond with Syl? Would something new take it's place?
Series: Stormlight Archives OrderSwap AU [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2126925
Comments: 1
Kudos: 14





	Double-Edged Sword

**Author's Note:**

> I am fascinated with the idea of an "Order Swap" AU for the Stormlight Archives, so I wrote this with Dustbringer Kaladin in mind.

Ever since he was a child, Kaladin can remember being fascinated by fire. The flickering strength of it, the way it exuded warmth and power and light? Kaladin loved it. Especially during the weeping, that much-maligned time where there was nothing but damp, dark crevasses in Kal’s mind. But fire always seemed to ward that off, just a little bit. 

Yet now, surrounded by the ashes of his squad, Kaladin feels no comfort from the scent of smoke. Especially faced with the choice he must make. Because staring at him, urging him on is Meridas Amaram. Tangentially responsible for Tien’s death, the man so many of Kaladin’s friends died for, is smiling at him. Smiling. And offering Kaladin a shardblade, won off of the enemy that Kaladin had slain. That- that thing had killed everyone… storms, Cenn. Poor Cenn, so young and bright. 

Kaladin Stormblessed can’t take that weapon, can’t force himself to even touch it. The wind is curling around him, bringing the scent of phantom steel and smoke to his nostrils, and Kaladin is about to turn down everything he has ever wanted. At least, he thinks he is, even as Amaram smiles at him, and offers him the damn sword and-- he remembers his fathers’ words and the pain that they have caused him. ‘You either heal or you hurt’ as they boiled down to, those malignant words. Kal doesn’t believe in that binary. Won’t believe in that binary, so he takes a deep breath, and puts his hand on the sword.

That which he hears next is a pure kind of agony, screaming and screaming and screaming as the shardblade sits heavy under his hand, but he grits his teeth and takes the hilt, holds the blade up to the sky as soldiers watch him. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees a small windspren, out of place, as it flits away, uninterested. It’s an odd detail to notice over the screaming, but one noticed nonetheless.

After that, after taking what should feel his but doesn’t, Kal is rushed away in a storm of claps on the back, handshakes, smiles. He might go down in history, a factual example of some lowly darkeyes taking hold of a shardblade, but he still can’t imagine that over the screaming. It hasn’t died down, not really, but Kaladin is starting to just barely get used to it. Perhaps that’s a testament to his force of will, but regardless, Kaladin feels just a bit better. He knows that Amaram will be planning a feast soon, in celebration of what Kaladin has done, but it’ll take at least a week. A week for Kal to bond to the blade, a week to change his life forever.

And Kaladin can still smell smoke.

The last couple of days have been… odd, for Kal. And that is a massive understatement. He’s still smelling smoke, still hearing screaming, and he wonders if this must be some kind of battle shock. It isn’t unheard of, especially in men who have lived as Kaladin has, but it unnerves him nonetheless. To try to distract himself, he’s been training. The sword he wields, which has begun to turn his eyes a light crimson, is an unwieldy thing. It’s, funny enough, shaped like a flame along the edges, and wide too. So unlike a spear, but Kaladin thinks he’s getting the hang of it. He has to when he has men like Amaram watching. 

Because apparently, some brightlords have taken an interest in their new companion, as, for some reason, Kal is now a brightlord. They watch him spar and train with keen eyes, hawks around a mouse. Kaladin doesn’t like the feeling of being watched, doesn’t really understand all of this dueling etiquette he now has to work with. But it’s getting easier, almost normal to wield the sword. 

Well, it would be getting easier if not for Kaladin knowing what the thing has done. So many of his friends dead to it, their lives snuffed out so easily. Kaladin could use the sword to do that too. Could, and probably will, extinguish so many souls, sending them up to the Tranquiline Halls. That fact and the single spot of dried blood on the pommel of the blade has sent Kaladin nearly vomiting so many times. But it’s too late to turn back because the blade is his. He can’t give it up just yet.

It’s his feast day and Kaladin is sitting in his quarters, shaking. It’s his feast day and Kaladin can’t bear the scent of the food, the laughter of those around him. He’s gotten so much, everything he’s ever wanted, and it makes him sick. The blade is always sitting there, the bond with it fresh in his mind, even as everything else inside of there crumbles. If this is battle shock, then Kaladin wishes he had never been to battle. But he has, and soon he’ll do it again.

The Shattered Plains. Amaram is going to the Shattered Plains, is going to go work under Sadeas, and Kaladin is coming with. He wants to let his parents know before he goes, wants to send them a letter, and is trying to write it as he shakes and shakes… but he can’t. His father, storms, his father would hate him for what he’s done. So Kaladin can’t tell his parents, and he feels so painfully alone in that fact.

Putting down the pen that he was trying to use, Kaladin decides to make his way to the training grounds again. Just as it had with the spear, Kaladin’s mind has started to quiet when he uses the sword. He doesn’t think it likes being called that, but Kaladin hates the thing, so he calls it that in his head anyway. 

Training his body does help the shake in his limbs go away, and the rattle of thoughts in his head. He allows himself to fall into poses that have quickly become familiar, even as the blade in his hand screams, and it feels nice. Among the dummies in the training room, he gives himself a moment. Takes a coveted breath, and works. He doesn’t think consciously while he trains, instead letting his thoughts wander. He lands on one in particular. 

The scent of smoke and fire hasn’t gone away during the week, seems to refuse to, and once again Kaladin wonders about battle shock. But he loses the thought to the gentle ache in his muscles and the precise movements of the kata he goes through. When he finishes in the room, the feast is already over. And perhaps Amaram won’t be happy with Kal for skipping his own feast, but Kal promises to deal with that in the morning. Going to bed, he lays staring at the ceiling for a while. Something sticks out to him as he drifts off, brain slowing to another stop. 

There’s something on the ceiling, seemingly burning through it. It’s small but it fascinates Kaladin, like fire contained inside of the stone, and he smiles as he falls asleep. 

The burn mark isn’t gone in the morning.


End file.
